Bridget's Journal, Week 9 - November
814 Words
November 9th
Hello there, Diary.
So, I’m officially on Tinder.
Actually, it’s not literally Tinder, but rather a lesser-known, lesbian dating app called Hers. I figured the more obscure it is, the less likely anyone from my school will find me on it.
I told myself I was going to wait and ask Kai for his advice, but then Tally went on and on about how they were macking on each other at the library all weekend (okay, just once, and probably not even with tongue, knowing the two of them, but still), and I decided to let the poor guy be happy and not force him to deal with my problems.
So, instead, I got a Hers account.
I haven’t gotten as many matches as I expected. I think it’s because so many of the girls on here are “dyke-ish”—not really an acceptable word, I guess, but you know what I mean. Being gay is their identity, from the haircut to the wardrobe. Meanwhile, I’m over here in my Prada and Armani, with my blown-out, blond hair and that amount of makeup that rides the line between too much and just enough.
I don’t actually know what kind of girls I’m into, I realized as I swiped through people’s photos. I mean, I know who I think is pretty and who isn’t. Tally and Mem, for example, are both gorgeous, in very different ways. But I would never have gone for either of them, even if they were strangers on this dating app. I would have seen all of Tally’s sports photos and thought, way too jock-y, and I would have seen all of Mem’s band t-shirts and eyeliner and thought, way too edgy.
But what do I want in a woman?
I’m not sure yet, but I promise I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
Love,
Me
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November 10th
Dear Diary,
Well, I think I found someone.
Her name is Taylor, and she’s 18. She’s got long, dirty blond hair, sort of messy-wavy without looking altogether unkempt, and pretty, hazel eyes. She seems to wear a lot of plaid. Her profile doesn’t say whether she’s in high school or college. She claims to be a singer, which, you know, could really mean any number of things, but also is sort of intriguing.
I matched with her last night, and she hasn’t messaged me.
I’ve never been through this before, for obvious reasons. If a guy is interested in me, he makes the first move. It makes things very simple that I never make the first move, you know?
What the hell am I supposed to say to her?
I’ll report back tomorrow if I figure it out.
Love,
Me
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November 11th
Dearest Diary,
Well, I figured it out.
At least, I thought I did. I sent her a message late last night, and nothing yet.
I thought “Hey” was a great idea—nice and simple, you know, understated. I’m having major second thoughts now, though. After all, doesn’t “Hey” imply that I’m not particularly invested in the conversation—or, worse, that I’m not particularly interesting?
But what else was I supposed to say? “Nice face?” “Sing for me sometime?” I’m really not sure which would be worse.
Seriously, how do straight people do this? Or gay people who actually date each other, for that matter?
Will report back tomorrow if this poor girl ever responds to me.
Love,
Me
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November 12th
Dear Diary,
Well, she responded.
“Hey.”
Touché, Taylor. Giving me a taste of my own medicine.
The ball is in my court, I think is the way this works. It’s my turn to say something, and if I want any shot with this girl, it’s going to have to be a hell of a lot better than “Hey.”
What the hell is the matter with me? Cool as a cucumber, Tally always called me. Smooth as butter, Mem would add. They always joke that I’m the coolest cat around—confident and self-assured, no matter what.
So why I am I suddenly so… spastic?
I already know the answer, I guess. I warned you about it early on. I even warned Kai about it early on, as best I could: I’m a fraud. I’m not who everyone thinks I am.
It’s not just the gay thing. It’s my whole, goddamn identity.
I think I’m gonna tell Kai this weekend.
Love,
Me
- Writer
